


he climbed cathedral mountains (he saw silver clouds below)

by andysmmrs



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: M/M, and they were mountaineering buddies (oh my god they were mountaineering buddies), the good ole road trip-ish fanfic trope, there will be only one bed at one point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 03:54:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21511348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andysmmrs/pseuds/andysmmrs
Summary: John Hartnell has one request after his death - that his ashes be spread atop Mount Olympus. It's no small order, but luckily, he's left instructions for his brother, Tom.
Relationships: Thomas Hartnell/Lt John Irving
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	he climbed cathedral mountains (he saw silver clouds below)

Tom stared at the computer screen in front of him, fingers lingering over the keyboard as he read the message he had typed and retyped to Sinai Climbing and Travel Co., again and again. 

_ To Whom It May Concern, _

_ My name is Thomas Hartnell, my brother John Hartnell was a friend of one of your founders, Graham Gore. Unfortunately, he passed away three months ago. His last wish was for his ashes to be spread on top of Mount Olympus, in Greece. He also said in the note that your company gave guided trips to the top of Mount Olympus, and he asked me to contact you about a trip like that. I’d appreciate any word back concerning what we might be able to arrange.  _

_ Thanks,  _

_ Thomas Hartnell  _

The more he read it, the more he picked it apart, unsure if he should go ahead and add in the long expository paragraph about him and his brother back in for extra context. Or, at least to soften the frankness of  _ “Unfortunately, he passed away three months ago.” _ That statement in itself would almost be funny to type out, if it didn’t make him want to curl up into a ball in some place dark and cold every time he read it. Dark and cold like how he felt whenever he remembered that John actually was dead. There were times where he’d almost subconsciously tell himself that John was just on a long trip somewhere, and he’d go to text him about something funny someone had said to him, or just call him to ask about his day, and he’d remember. He thought it was the stupidest thing in the world. Forgetting your brother was dead.

Of course, he hadn’t ever really forgot, it was more like there was a wound that was scabbing over, and every time he’d have to remind himself that John was gone it was like picking at it until it bled. 

He elected to send the email as it was. It was what he had came up with after two hours of redrafts. If he came off as callous, well, that would just be too tough. There were better things to worry about than how an email might be read. Pacing back and forth in his room and stretching, he checks the time on his phone and sits down on his bed, scratching his face to read a text from Betsy. It was a link to another joke, she’d been sending him one a day for about a week now. She’d send him a dumb joke and he’d send her one back. It was difficult to think about things to talk about with her, harder still to even think of anything to start a conversation with. The jokes broke the ice for them, and then they’d talk about little stuff. School for her, work for him. If she was in a good mood she’d tease him about something, and things would feel alright for a moment. Today’s joke read:

_ Q: What do you call a rich elf? _

_ A: Welfy. _

Betsy had been on a groan-inducing pun streak recently, although he did have to admit, “welfy” was pretty good. After a quick browse through the site she had linked him to, he found one to send back, when a ping from his computer called him from the bed and back to his desk. Sitting down in front of his computer, he opened the email he had received. 

_ Mr. Thomas Hartnell,  _

_ I’m very sorry to hear about your brother’s passing. He and Graham were indeed good friends, Graham will be very saddened indeed to hear of his passing. In regards to his final request, our company does in fact offer guides to Mount Olympus, and I have included in this email pertinent information regarding different travel packs we offer. Price is dependent mostly on the transportation you will be utilizing to arrive in Greece, and which summit you choose. Give those a read-through and I’ll be waiting to hear back on how you wish to proceed on planning this trip. Once again, my deepest condolences to you and your family, we at Sinai Climbing and Travel Co. are honored you’ve selected us to help in granting your brother’s last wish.  _

_ Regards,  _

_ John Irving  _

His phone chimed as he opened the links Irving had mentioned in the email, another text from Betsy,

_ I’ve already read that one, idiot.  _

The link is to Sinai Climbing and Travel’s website, which he’d already looked through earlier over a sandwich, paying attention mostly at the pictures of sunsets atop of snow covered mountains, men and women in brightly colored parkas standing with wide smiles on rocky ledges overlooking deep valleys. Sort of made his stomach spin, if he thought about it for too long, being up that high. He scrolls further down the page to a detailed section splitting up different ways to go about the trip, ranging from most to least expensive. 

As he reads through the summaries of the trip, all the excursions and details about sights and things he starts to remember why he’s been postponing planning all of this. 

“You should be here right now, you’d love this…” 

That’s all he can get out, and it’s barely audible. He’s talked to the air like this a few times. It’s equal parts therapeutic and embarrassing, he feels like he’s trying to put on a show for no one in particular, not like he’s having a conversation at all. The sentiment is honest, though, it’s more honest than anything he’s said about his brother to anyone for months, and it’s so simple. John should be here. That’s it. Pacing some more doesn’t help any, but it’s what he can think of to do other than crying more. When he sits back down at his desk, he tries to recommit himself to planning, but he can’t focus on any of the words he’s reading, so he grabs his phone and responds to Betsy.

_ Alright. How’s this one: _

_ Q: How much does it cost for a pirate to get his ears pierced? _

_ A: A buck an ear. _

Betsy’s response is almost spontaneous. 

_ I don’t get it. _

_ OH! Buccaneer.  _

_ That’s stupid. :P _

He’s able to smile, in spite of himself, and he sets his phone back down. He doesn’t try to look at the options for trips again, instead he calls it a night, shuts his computer off, and manages to get himself down into bed. 

He’s in regular correspondence with Irving over the next few weeks, they're emailing each other back and forth and working out the details of the trip. At Irving’s advice, he’s booked a flight out a good while in advance, and as the day approaches Irving’s telling him he needs to be training in the meantime. Going for runs regularly, that sort of thing. At one point they exchange numbers, and after that he and Irving text almost every day. Most of the time, they talk about the trip, but they also talk about anything else that comes to mind. 

It’s found out that Graham Gore, the man that inspired John to recommend this company in the first place - indeed, the man that probably inspired this admittedly random request - is currently on a trip up in the Arctic, working on some anthropological research project with a friend of his. Graham had called him a while into the correspondence between him and Irving to express how sorry he was about John. Graham tells Tom all the things he had heard before, that John was an absolute joy to be around, he was a great person, anyone who knew him will miss him. It was so nice to hear those things again, though. The sort of praises people say to you once at a funeral, and then never again, as if all that John meant to a person could really all be said in one thoughtful statement spoken over a sympathetic clasping of one’s hands with a fellow griever. 

In any case, it answers a question he supposed he had from the beginning about the apparent radio silence from the man his brother had clearly thought so highly of. There wasn’t any problem with Irving, of course, in fact, Tom found the man surprisingly easy to confide in, despite Irving’s tendency to quote the Bible when he ran out of his own comforting words. 

They don’t just talk about his brother, thankfully, he and Irving. Irving tells him how he got into mountaineering. It was a hobby, he explained, that branched off of his earlier hobby, hiking, which was of course, rooted in a love for nature that had been first born in him in childhood, in church. 

“It was a way to feel close to God, getting away from the city and going up into the high country,” John says to him one night, during a late phone call. “That probably sounds very cliché to you, but it really is so beautiful up there, especially when you get above the clouds. On a clear day on the Mytikas summit, you can see absolutely everything below you, you really get the idea of why they believed their gods lived on that mountain.” 

Irving likes to talk at length about how nature moves him, and Tom likes to listen, so he lets him ramble on until he realizes how long he’s been talking. Then he’ll apologize, and Tom will tell him that he doesn’t mind it. Doesn’t mind it at all, in fact, he can talk as long as he’d like. But it’s no use, Irving’s ran out of that fervor that possesses him when he tells a good mountaineering story, and he seems like the sort that needs that feeling to come organically.

One thing Tom catches himself wondering often is which one of the guides pictured on the website is Irving. Guessing by voice was his first plan, but voices can be misleading. Irving's is light, almost nasally but not unpleasant. Especially coupled with a Scottish accent he seems to, for whatever reason, be trying to smother. The more he wonders, the more it starts to nag at the back of his mind. Tom decides the best recourse is to simply ask him if he’d like to Skype to go over the plan in a sort of once-and-for-all the first day of the week he’s meant to leave. 

They schedule a Skype session at around noon, and Tom is inexplicably nervous as the hour draws ever nearer. He showers, combs his hair, changes his shirt several times. Sitting at the desk, he scolds himself, which does nothing for his nerves, reminding himself that he’s just reviewing the plan. Nothing they haven’t talked about before, and it’s not going to be any different than how they’ve been talking already. He’s checking his reflection in the computer monitor when Irving calls. 

He had guessed incorrectly, that’s the first thought. He had thought that someone with such a “earnest youth pastor” vibe to him wouldn’t have such a full beard. Irving’s just as awkward as he is, which is a relief. The first few minutes of the call are two of them stumbling over each other’s sentences, beginning a sentence in tandem and stopping themselves short at the same time until Irving finally instructs Tom to speak first. 

“I’ve got the list you sent, about what to pack. And I’ve booked ahead at the hotels and everything.”

“Great!” Irving smiles politely, and looks down, like he’s reading from a list or something, before looking back up, “I assume you’ve been training according to instruction as well, correct?” 

“I have.” Tom confirms, looking down at the time in the corner of the monitor, then at his hands, trying to look as if his eyes are naturally drawn to anywhere other than the screen, much like Irving is. It’s silly, he knows that, but the beginning of the call is very stiff and all-business, Tom finds it to be rather reminiscent of the first emails they exchanged together.

Luckily, all it takes is Irving making an off-handed comment about the Mytikas summit, and Tom jumping at the opportunity to send Irving off onto one of his long talks for the frosty conversation to thaw out. They end up talking for much longer than Tom would’ve thought he’d be comfortable with. An hour and then two go by quickly as Irving shares stories starring himself and Graham Gore. Tom asks him if he ever met John in person, and he almost regrets it. 

Immediately he feels guilty for thinking he ought to regret it, especially when Irving responses so well to it, so coolly and casually - but respectfully, of course. No, he hadn’t met John, but Graham always spoke so well of him that he wishes he could have. Tom has to stop himself from overthinking it, that even for a minute he felt as if he shouldn’t have mentioned his brother. It was a thought crime, is what it was, the idea that John would ever be someone that would spoil a conversation. He’s glad Irving’s on the other end of the call, so there’s a reason to force himself to move on from the thought instead of mulling it over for the next hour. 

To suspend the guilt further, he in turn begins to tell a story about him and John. It’s hard to remember the last time he could tell any stories about John. It was quite a change from how just a while ago he had hoarded every story, every favorite memory of John, like if he tried to talk about it or share anything it’d be like giving a part of his brother away. Not that it made sense, if he thought about it, it was a desperate and sad thing to think, he knew that. But it didn’t change how he had felt. 

The story is about how he and John had once insisted on walking home from primary school - despite the inclement weather foreboding a storm, and the numerous warnings from teachers and fellow students. They figured they’d be home before it began to rain, but then they got distracted trying to coax a stray cat into John’s book-bag. They followed the thing around for the better part of a half hour, in hindsight the poor thing must’ve been terrified, being followed by two bumbling goons making noises at it and trying to pet it. It had been raining for some time when they finally reached home, and their mother wasn’t having any sort of excuse. They were severely reprimanded, or at least, they had thought that they had been at the time. Tom figures now that it could’ve been much worse, considering their age, they should have known better. 

“Of course, we both woke up the next morning sick, which put a fine point on what my mother had been scolding us for.” he concludes, Irving giving a sympathetic groan, shaking his head in an amused sort of way.

“That’s the sort of thing every kid does,” Irving says, shrugging, “I used to stay outside late constantly trying to capture beetles and caterpillars to bring into the house, much to the dismay of nearly everyone else inside.” 

Suddenly, it’s four in the afternoon, a realization that takes the both of them by surprise. Tom remembers suddenly how nice it is to have conversations that take several goodbyes to end, because neither of you really want to hang up the call. They finally do it, though, and he’s sitting at his computer for a while before his phone pings with the daily joke from Betsy.

_ Q: How does the moon cut his hair? _

_ A: Eclipse it.  _

He sets his phone down and folds his hands, resting his chin atop them. It’s three days until his flight into Athens, and much, much too late for him to be coming into terms with his crush on his climbing guide. 

**Author's Note:**

> fic title is from rocky mountain high by john denver, i'm sure i'll end up naming a couple of chapters based on lyrics from the song as well because it's a solid bop.


End file.
